


Songbird

by RogueTranslator



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Camping, Canon LGBTQ Character, Canon LGBTQ Male Character, Canon Universe, Canonical Character Death, Castiel Talks About Feelings (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Talks About Feelings, Fishing, Fix-It, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Let's Unbury Some Gays, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Resurrection, Romance, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27445387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueTranslator/pseuds/RogueTranslator
Summary: Things are a little awkward in the bunker after they get Castiel out of the Empty, what with his last words to Dean being a confession of his undying love and Dean being hopeless at talking about feelings. Sam, thinking that a trip away from everything will force them to communicate, wrangles everyone into the Impala for a trip to Colorado: camping, fishing, and—most importantly—no nearby hallway for one of them to turn down when they see the other coming.At minimum, he just wants the bunker to feel less weird all the time. But if his brother also managed to get his head out of his ass and admit that what’s between him and Castiel isn’t completely one-sided, that would be gravy.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 54
Kudos: 479
Collections: The AO3 SPN Kink Meme





	Songbird

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [theao3spnkinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/theao3spnkinkmeme) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> If they were in a pool hall Dean would want to take the same hands-on approach in teaching Cas the nuance of the game. But pool halls are crowded. Out here in nature there's nobody around for miles, apart from Sam and Jack. But right now it's just the two of them. So he crowds into Cas' personal space, and Cas lets him position his hands just-so, and it's pretty much perfect. They should've made the time to do this year's ago.
> 
>  **do want** : Gen or Teen rating. Pre-relationship.
> 
>  **do not want** : Sam/Jack slash.

They left the bunker just after nine and drove eight hours to the west, stopping for lunch at a truck stop diner that straddled the Kansas-Colorado border on the way. The campsite was a ways in from the national forest entrance, accessible only by a 10-mph road and numbered by a varnished wooden signpost. Dean stuck the vehicle permit on the Impala’s windshield as he got out.

“Think my legs fell asleep hours ago,” Sam said. He stretched his arms to the sky and groaned. “Who wants to go on a quick loop around the campground?”

Jack raised his hand. “Me!”

“We should put up the tent first,” Castiel said. “The sun will set behind the mountains soon.”

Dean turned to the three of them. “Cass, you and I can do that. Only takes two people, anyway.”

Sam rubbed his nose and smiled.

“Huh. Yeah.”

“What?”

“No, I’m just saying you’re right, Dean. You and Cass can handle it all on your own. Just the two of you.”

There was a pregnant pause between their four pairs of eyes over the car roof. When they’d gotten Castiel back from the Empty two weeks ago, Dean had asked Sam to give the two of them some space to figure things out. Over the past few days, though, he’d been playing fast and loose with that. In the booth at lunch he’d made the four of them shuffle places so that Dean and Castiel could sit on the same side, sending a pepper shaker spinning to the floor in the process.

“Take all the water bottles with you,” Dean said, ending the standoff. “I saw a fountain on the way in, by the bathrooms.”

They split up. Dean carried the fishing poles and tent; Castiel followed behind with the cooler. The campsite came into view as they passed through the trees that separated it from the parking spur. It lay on a tiny triangular peninsula that jutted out into the lake, with a tentpad close to the road and a picnic table and firepit grill further in. On one side, a stand of lodgepole pines screened off the sightline to the rest of the campground. Surrounding it all was the placid water, which stretched on and on to the stream of snowmelt from the Front Range.

“It’s beautiful, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean smiled. “We should’ve done this sooner.”

“Well, we’ve been busy.”

Dean snorted. Considering that their most recent—and, if he had anything to say about it, final—nemeses had been God and the Empty, that was a cosmic understatement.

Castiel patted his shoulder, and Dean turned to look at his hand. For the first time since he’d returned, neither of them pulled away.

“It’s nice to see you relax.”

“Right back at you. What can I say, retirement suits us.” Dean placed the fishing rods on the table. “Let’s get the tent set up.”

He laid out the components on the grass and showed Castiel how to fit the tentpoles together. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly from the cloudless sky, and Dean took a break to grab a cold drink from the cooler. In between sips, he started some music playing on his phone. When Castiel finished with one of the poles, Dean gave him a thumbs up.

“This song is on one of the tapes you gave me,” Castiel said.

“Yup.” Dean returned to his side and squatted down to retrieve one of the other poles. “Bob Seger. You know the words?”

Dean sang a couple lines, to which Castiel shook his head. “I don’t have them memorized. I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Oh. Hey, it’s fine. You have more time to listen now, at least.”

“Yes. Maybe we could…listen to them together?”

Dean felt his knees lock up; he swayed slightly on his ankles before steadying himself. He closed his eyes and took a long draft from his beer. Castiel was still staring at him when he opened them.

“You look hot, Dean.”

“What?”

Castiel tilted his head.

“Oh.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “Yeah, I am. I think I’ll ditch the flannel.”

Dean tossed his plaid shirt at the picnic table, then helped Castiel thread the poles into the tent’s eyelets. Bob Seger faded out on the classic rock station, replaced by Fleetwood Mac. After some initial difficulty, they raised the tent upright, and Dean aligned it to the tarp underneath while Castiel picked up and inspected the stakes.

“Hang on, let me find a stone…actually, I can get a hammer from the trunk if there isn’t one around here.”

“For what?”

Dean turned around. Castiel was driving the stakes deep into the earth with the lightest tap of his fingers.

“Show-off,” Dean muttered.

Maybe he was imagining it, but he thought he detected the flicker of a smile at the corners of Castiel’s mouth. It was nice to see. Except for the day of his return, when they’d all hugged at the edge of the world, Castiel hadn’t smiled much in the last two weeks. His last words, caught between Death and the Empty, weighed on him. Dean knew that, knew he had to say something— _Just talk to him_ , Sam had sighed after a week of awkwardly dropped eyes in the kitchen—but words were hard. Especially about something like this.

“I like this song, Dean,” Castiel said.

“Yeah?” Dean cocked his head. “You know, you always seemed like a soft rock kind of angel.”

“She’s telling a man she still loves him.” He balled up the empty stake bag and rose to his feet. “That they were happy together. Maybe they can be again.”

Dean peered at him for a few seconds before looking away. He unzipped his duffel bag and rummaged his hand through it, looking for nothing. Eventually, there were distant footsteps in the dirt, and Dean craned his neck to see them. Sam and Jack, loaded down with bags, were walking through the trees.

“You guys already finished setting up the tent?”

“Yeah.” Dean stood up. “We, uh, just finished.”

“Cool.” Sam crouched through the tent door and threw things in one at a time. “Take a break, I’ll put the sleeping bags down.”

“I’ll help,” Castiel said.

“No.” Sam almost sounded exasperated. “I’ve got it. Why don’t you and Dean go fishing? You were talking about it at lunch.”

“I was mostly talking about how bad I am at it,” Castiel replied. “Jack can go with you, Dean. He enjoys fishing more than I do.”

Jack and Sam exchanged a look.

“I’ll—I’ll stay here,” Jack said slowly. “You need more practice than me, anyway.”

Castiel sighed. “Okay, fine.”

Dean elbowed him when they reached the picnic table.

“You don’t have to sound like you’d rather be doing anything else,” he joked.

“That’s not what it is.” Castiel accepted the rod that Dean handed him. “You know it’s not.”

Dean watched him trudge down the rise to the shoreline. He killed the music, then followed him.

“I know,” Dean mumbled, from far enough behind that he was only talking to himself.

Castiel stopped at a spot between two banks of reeds, several yards from where the pine trees began. He turned to Dean.

“Here?”

“Yeah, here’s fine. You go first. I want to see your cast.”

He tilted his head in protest but acquiesced.

“Not…not bad.”

Castiel snorted. “You’re usually a better liar, Dean.”

“I’m not lying. Really. I’ve seen worse.”

“Go ahead, then. Show me yours. I’m ready to take pointers.”

Dean ground his feet into the dirt, flexed his fingers, and sent the lure onto the water. It pierced the stillness about 40 yards out.

“That went far.”

“I can go farther,” Dean said. “It’s not too hard to get that much distance. Especially for someone as strong as you, Cass.”

“What should I do?”

“Alright, bring your line in.” Dean waited, then motioned to his feet. “Now, you want to step forward when you cast. And pivot your body. A lot of the cast is coming from your legs and trunk, not just your arms.”

“Ah,” Castiel said, mirroring Dean’s movements.

“Go ahead, try it.”

Castiel straightened his back, turned into the cast. His second attempt landed a few feet from Dean’s lure. Their lines were nearly parallel above the surface of the water.

“Awesome,” Dean said. “You nailed that.”

“It could just be beginner’s luck.”

Dean raised his eyebrows.

“It’s a gambling term. Like ‘all in.’ Or ‘hole card.’”

“Yeah. Uh, thanks for telling me. But no, I don’t think it’s just beginner’s luck. A few pointers and you could be a damn good angler.”

“Well, I did practice some in Idaho. When we weren’t talking.”

“See?” Dean grinned. “Maybe we should do this every weekend now that we have the time. You’ll be a master before you know it.”

Castiel smiled too, though his gaze was far-off, watching something on the water. Waiting.

“You okay?” Dean said, after they’d passed a long time in silence.

“I’m okay. I’m just thinking about….”

“About?” Dean said, though he knew the answer.

“Dean, about—about what I said. What I told you. When—”

“Cass.”

Castiel looked at him, the glimmering sun in his hair. His pole remained perfectly rigid. Dean couldn’t tell whether that was due to the tension of the moment or just his superhuman strength.

“Uh.” He reached across the space between them and squeezed Castiel’s forearm. “You’ve got to loosen up a little, man.”

Castiel glanced at Dean’s hand. “What?”

“You’re too stiff. I mean, I know you’ve got a tight grip and all that, but you need some give on the rod if you want the lure to look natural in the water.”

“Oh.” Castiel furrowed his brow, and the rod dipped almost imperceptibly.

“Yeah.” Dean turned back to the lake. “Like that.”

They fished in quiet for a while. There was the montane wind in the pine needles, the lapping of the tiny waves, the murmuring of Sam and Jack from far enough up the rise that Dean couldn’t make out their words.

“Nothing, huh?” Dean brought his line in. “Alright, let’s try again.”

“Maybe they’re just not biting.”

“No.” Dean shrugged. “I mean, maybe. Sometimes you've just got to be patient. They’ll come when they’re ready.”

Castiel sent his line out again. “You think so?”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time, Cass. As long as I can remember. Ever since Dad used to take me to the stream outside of town, back when Mom was still alive.”

A wedge of geese flew overhead, honking, and Castiel stared up.

“Point is, you can’t rush them. You’ll scare them away like that.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll ever find this as relaxing as you do,” he said. “The waiting.”

“It’s not like we have anywhere else to be.” Dean peeked at him. “Or do you?”

“Me? No.” Castiel frowned at his shoes. “No, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

A cool breeze wound along the shore, licking the sweat from Dean’s nape. He glanced over his shoulder to see whether they were still alone.

“I’m happy you’re back, Cass. Really happy. I wasn’t sure—I mean, for a while there—”

“I know. Me too.”

Dean chuckled. “I should probably know better by now, though.”

“Know what?”

“That nothing can keep you dead. I mean, you could give Jean Grey pointers.”

He tilted his head.

“She’s a Marvel character. Dies and comes back a lot. Including as a literal phoenix.”

“Ah. I don’t think Metatron’s frame of reference included comic books.”

“His loss. Probably why we beat his ass.”

Castiel sped up his reel, though he didn’t seem to have caught anything. The wind calmed. Dean could hear the birds chittering in the pine branches.

“Dean,” he said softly. “I’ll always come back to you. Somehow, some way. Do you know why?”

“Yeah.” Dean swallowed. “Yeah, I know why, Cass.”

He felt Castiel looking at him. He wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. It was like trying to recite the lyrics to a song he liked the sound of but hadn’t heard enough times to take to heart.

After a long while, Castiel turned back to the lake and reeled in his line.

“Cass?”

“I’m not getting anything.” Castiel pivoted up the slope. “I’ll let Jack have a turn. He’s better at fishing than I am.”

“But—you’ve only been trying for like half an hour. That’s nothing.”

“Maybe I’ll try again another time.” He offered Dean a wan smile. “Besides, I told Sam I’d help him with dinner. It’s getting to that time.”

Dean watched him walk off. He spent the few seconds he was alone after that collecting himself, piecing through the feelings and words that shifted into sand as soon as he tried to pick them up. It was only when he heard Jack’s shoes kicking up the dirt behind him that he opened his eyes and sent his line out again.

* * *

He caught one fish, a decent-sized smallmouth bass. It went on the grill with the hot dogs and Sam’s vegetable kebabs. Canned peas and corn, potato chips, and fruit salad rounded out the meal.

“What do you think?” Dean said, once Jack took his first bite.

“It’s—” Jack chewed. “It’s fishy.”

“That would make sense,” Castiel said. He looked away when Dean turned to him.

“You’re not going to try it, Cass?”

“I don’t have to eat,” he said, as if that were new information. “I’d rather there be more for you. All of you.”

After dinner, around the fire, Castiel said he’d stand watch while they slept.

“Is that necessary?” Sam said. “I doubt anything supernatural followed us out here.”

“Well, according to the pamphlet at the ranger station, there’re bears and mountain lions in these woods.” Castiel poked a long stick into the embers. “Besides, I don’t sleep. There isn’t much else for me to do than watch over you all.”

“I don’t know, Cass. You could hang out in the tent with us.” Dean turned away from Sam’s raised eyebrows and sipped his beer.

“But I’ll be awake all night anyway. I may as well make myself useful.”

“I just mean—it’s a four-person tent, is all I’m saying. You don’t have to stand out in the cold. There’s room for you. Sam packed an extra sleeping bag.”

“I put it on Dean’s side of the tent,” Sam added.

“Wait, what?” Dean glanced at Sam. “I mean, yeah. That’s fine.”

“We could take turns on watch,” Jack suggested, oblivious. “I only have to sleep a few hours, anyway.”

“Your concern—it’s kind of you, but unnecessary.” Castiel stood up, tossed another log on the fire. “I don’t get cold. And you could do with more sleep, Jack. You’re still growing.”

That was the last word on the topic. Sam and Jack got up for bed not too long afterward, brushing their teeth with the water from their canteens, and Castiel hugged Jack at the tent door. He began puttering around the campfire, picking up the bottles for refilling, drying the dinner dishes, returning leftover dips and salsas and fruit to the cooler.

“Cass, we can do that later,” Dean said.

“I don’t mind.”

“Just—” Dean yanked the camping chair to his left closer to him and patted its seat. “Just sit down with me. Relax.”

Castiel placed the dishes atop the cooler and lowered himself into the chair. He smiled tightly at Dean.

“We’re on vacation, Cass. Take it easy.”

“Sorry, Dean.” Castiel looked at Dean’s shoulder, then the fire. “I guess it’s still hard for me. Making the adjustment.”

“Can’t blame you. The three of us finally getting a break after all these years? Pretty weird.”

“Yes, and…everything else. Being alive again. Finally being free. Feeling free.”

“Free,” Dean echoed. He tipped his bottle towards the fire. “No more Chuck.”

Castiel worked his lips together. Dean watched him in the firelight, waited for him to say what was on his mind.

“Not just that. What I said to you before the Empty came for me—what _got_ the Empty to come for me.” He intertwined his hands in his lap. “Things I’d been keeping in for years. It was freeing. Finally saying them.”

Dean nodded. The fire popped, and a lick of flame reached up into the night for a split-second before receding.

“Though I get the impression that you don’t feel the same way.”

“Cass, I—”

“Freed, I mean. By hearing that. Maybe I just gave you to carry what I couldn’t anymore. Maybe I was selfish to say anything.”

Castiel glared at the fire, his features hardening slowly, inexorably. Dean looked down at his beer.

“I thought that was the end. I didn’t think about what came after. After the saying. If I ever saw you again. And since getting back—I sense that you’re uncomfortable around me. That I broke things between us in a way they’ve never been broken before.”

Dean waited for a while. When he was sure Castiel had said his piece, he looked up again and stared at the fire.

“I’m not uncomfortable around you, Cass.”

“You act like it.”

“I’m not. I want you around. I need you around. We all do. Sam, Jack—”

“I wasn’t talking about Sam and Jack.”

“I—I know.” Dean took a deep breath. “We’re not broken, Cass. I don’t want you to feel that way.”

Castiel glanced at him. “We’re not?”

“No.” Dean returned the look, held it. “You and me, that’s never going away. No matter—no matter what. I’m just…sort of figuring out how we fit together now.”

A smile pulled at the corner of Castiel’s mouth.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s just rare to hear you get so—what’s that term you use? Lifetime movie.”

They traded a small laugh; the fire sparked and crackled. In one of the towering pines behind them, an owl hooted out into the night. They were quiet for a long time, until Dean finished his beer and stood up for his toothbrush.

“I’m going to hit the sack,” he said, once he’d finished. “Are you—”

“I’ll stay out here.” Castiel relaxed into his chair and tipped his head back. “It’s funny how much I missed the stars in the Empty. How those little points of light in all that darkness make the entire difference.”

Dean looked up with him for a while. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gazed at the sky at night just to see it. Finally, he pressed his hand to Castiel’s shoulder.

“Goodnight, Cass.”

Castiel looked at Dean’s hand, then placed his over it. He was warm from the fire.

“Night, Dean.”

* * *

Dean woke to birdsong. It came from far above him, in the boughs of the pines, and at the same time somewhere much closer—in the grass around the campsite, maybe, or along the lake nearby. He blinked up at the soft blue glow of dawn through the tent’s fabric. It’d been a while since he’d last awoken with the sun, and not just because they lived underground.

He was at one end of the tent; Sam lay at the other. Jack, on his side and facing Dean, slumbered between them. His thumb was in his mouth. The air smelled of last night’s fire, of virgin soil, and of the pungent admixture of deodorant and night sweat produced by three men sleeping close together.

Dean sank further into the down of his sleeping bag and listened to the birds. It was June, but they’d driven high up enough in the mountains that the night was still cold, and the cocoon of warmth around him was the perfect temperature. Even the promise of coffee couldn’t raise him yet.

That was when he heard other singing—rougher than the birds in timbre; hushed, yet carrying far because of its low pitch. The syllables slid together like fingers gliding up the strings of a harp, and Dean squinted into the blue as his sleep-fogged brain tried to divine their meaning.

It was Castiel’s voice. He knew that much. Dean looked at the empty sleeping bag at his side, tousled now from his tossing and turning. True to his word, Castiel had stood guard outside all night. For a moment, Dean thought about what it would have been like to wake up next to him. If he were being honest, it wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind in the month since Castiel had told him he loved him.

Dean clambered out of the tent, unzipping the door slowly so as not to wake the others. He grabbed his flannel shirt from the day before and pulled it on. He could see his breath as he walked towards Castiel’s voice.

“Morning,” Dean croaked. He was still hoarse from sleep and smoke.

Castiel looked over his shoulder. He was standing in the same place they’d fished yesterday, silhouetted by the first glow of sun on the horizon.

“Good morning, Dean.”

“I heard you singing.” Dean stopped a few steps away, hesitated. “Fleetwood Mac again?”

“Yes. I’m not sure what this one was about. I don’t think it’s about actual birds. Love, I guess.” He glanced at him. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, the birds did that. Was nice, actually. Not hearing an alarm, not waking up in the dark.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Yeah.” Dean snorted and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

“I’ve been trying for an hour now,” Castiel said.

“Nothing biting?”

He shook his head. The pink light of dawn softened the disappointment on his face.

“Well, you got your line pretty far out there,” Dean remarked.

Castiel shrugged.

“Uh, let’s see.” Dean took another step towards him. “It could be as simple as where you’re casting. Part of fishing is knowing what you’re looking for. More of it’s knowledge than technique, honestly.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like, for example, if you’re trying to hook bass, you want to cast into cover.”

“Cover?”

“Yeah. They’re predators, so they sit and wait in reeds, rocks, debris, stuff like that, until food comes along.”

“Meaning my bait.”

“Exactly.” Dean motioned to the lake. “As for right now, you’ve got your lure way out in the open. That’s better for trout, since they like cold water. In the summer at least.”

“Ah.”

“Bass will fight you more, so you’ve got to be ready for that. And for either of them, you want to be subtle and patient on your retrieve. That goes for most fish, really. Don’t go too fast.”

Castiel started reeling in his line. “Well, I haven’t retrieved anything. That’s the problem.”

“Alright. Bring it in and we’ll go through it.”

Dean took one final step and tapped two fingers to Castiel’s hand. Castiel blinked as he turned to him. They were close enough now for Dean to feel the warmth of his breath when he exhaled.

“Dean?”

“Remember what I said?”

Castiel’s eyes searched his.

“Loosen up. You’re not holding an angel blade.”

He gave a short, mournful laugh and finished the last few yards of line. “No. And I hope I never have to again.”

“Me too, Cass.” Dean shook his head. “For both our sakes.”

There was some orange in the sunrise now, and Castiel’s eyes sparkled when he looked at him.

“I’m ready.”

“Okay.” Dean cleared his throat. “First, the pre-cast. What are we going for?”

“Trout. I might as well finish what I started.”

“Alright, so we’re casting into open water. And you have a pretty good spinner on for trout, so I don’t think we need to switch that.” Dean nodded to the lake. “Go ahead.”

“Should I aim for the same place?”

“Let’s try a different spot. Especially since you struck out there. You know, fish aren’t stupid. They catch on pretty quick, especially with lures.”

Castiel peered into the distance, then stepped back for the cast. The lure plopped into the water far enough away to not make a sound.

“Great.” Dean patted Castiel’s back. “Awesome. That was perfect.”

The muscles in Castiel’s neck tensed at the praise, or maybe Dean’s touch. Dean wasn’t sure which.

“So, now what?”

“We work the retrieve. Hopefully we’ll get a hit.” Dean shuffled behind him, planted his feet on the slope, and brought his arms over his. “Here.”

Castiel’s entire body froze. Dean paused but didn’t shrink back.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

“I’m showing you how to do it. Is that—I mean, is that okay?”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak for a few seconds. The sunrise on the mountains seemed to shift in a fundamental way in that time, from something caught in between to undeniable daylight.

“It’s okay,” Castiel said. Dean felt his shoulders relax underneath his.

“Alright.” Dean slotted his fingers over Castiel’s rod hand. “Sorry, I know my hand’s cold.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“You, though—” Dean squeezed him gently. “You’re warm. Even though you’ve been outside all night. It’s nice.”

Castiel didn’t respond. Dean couldn’t see his eyes, but from the angle of his chin he thought that he was looking at their hands.

“Alright,” Dean said again. He enclosed Castiel’s other hand with his and tapped his thumbnail. “Start reeling.”

He spun the reel for a few frenzied revolutions. Dean gripped his hand.

“Stop. Way too fast.”

“Sorry, Dean. I’m just….”

“It’s okay. Just—slowly.” Dean rubbed the side of Castiel’s thumb. “Start slow, we’ll work our way up.”

Castiel took a deep breath; Dean felt his lungs expand and contract through his trench coat. He spun the reel again, and the speed was just right.

“Good. Now we want to add a little movement. Just a little.”

“How?”

“Well, we’re trying to mimic the behavior of bait fish. That means twitching the rod back and forth, mixing up our speed, keeping the line pretty steady while we do it.”

Castiel waved the rod to the left, then the right. He glanced over his shoulder at Dean.

“Less than that,” Dean said. “We’re going for subtle movements, remember?”

“Show me, Dean.”

Dean leaned forward, and their bodies touched from top to bottom. He cupped Castiel’s hand to steady the rod, then wavered the lure back and forth through the water.

“See how it’s just the tip of the pole that’s moving? That’s what we want. No huge swings in either direction.”

Castiel murmured something that sounded like comprehension.

“That’s the basic technique. And you just mix it up. The speed of your reel, when you change direction, how long you spend maintaining course, that kind of thing. You get a sense for it more and more as you practice.”

Dean let go of Castiel’s hands and leaned back—not far enough to quit the situation, but enough to think about what he’d do next.

“Dean?”

“I’m letting you try on your own. I’ll step in if you’re getting it wrong, don’t worry.”

He worked the water for a while. He was a quick learner—quicker than Jack, even. Dean hummed his approval.

“I can see why people say fishing requires patience,” Castiel said. He brought the lure to shore, cleaned the algae from it, and sent it out again. “That’s never been my strong suit.”

“It’s easier if you enjoy it. But sometimes all you can do is wait.”

“I suppose it’s good for contemplation.”

“Yeah. I think a lot when I fish. Sometimes it feels like I do my best thinking then.”

Castiel chuckled.

“I sing, too. Mostly when I’m alone. My voice isn’t as nice as yours. No, you’re bouncing too much.” Dean wrapped his arms around him again and stilled the line. “Steady.”

“Trial and error,” Castiel muttered.

“Making it up as you go?”

A dimple appeared on the cheek that Dean could see. Castiel leaned back—gently, cautiously, subtly enough that it could be denied—into Dean’s embrace.

“Thank you, Dean.”

He didn’t clarify what he meant. Dean didn’t ask him to. He’d said it in a way that encompassed thanks for things great and small: gratitude as a state of being.

Dean dropped his hands to Castiel’s waist, circled him there. He rested his chin in the hollow place between Castiel’s neck and clavicle.

“Dean,” Castiel said softly.

Dean tightened his arms around him in response.

“Dean, I—when I told you how I felt. How I feel. I didn’t expect anything from you. That’s not why I said it.”

“I know.”

“And I still don’t. I just—I keep bringing it up, wanting to talk about it, because I don’t want to lose our friendship. To ruin what we had.”

“Your reel,” Dean murmured. He didn’t move his arms.

“What?”

“You’re going too fast again. Patience.”

Castiel sighed; his hand slowed. “Patience.”

The sun was nearly above the mountains now. It was warm on Dean’s face, hot on the side of Castiel’s neck where Dean pressed his cheek. The songbirds trilled in the pine branches, and a few of them darted out over the water in search of the day.

“Cass,” Dean said. “What I feel for you—you know I’ve never had to say it for you to know.”

“I know, Dean.”

“But I will say it. I love you.”

Castiel drew in a jagged breath. His hand stopped spinning.

“I don’t know if—I mean, I’m still figuring out—”

“How we fit together?”

“Yeah.” Dean exhaled. “I’ve never done anything like…this. I’ve never been with—”

“A man?”

He nodded. “And I know you’re technically a beam of light.”

“A wavelength.”

“Yeah, that. But I’m not. I’m still working through it all.”

Castiel started on the reel again, his hand slow and measured. Dozens of their heartbeats fit into each turn.

“I’m not saying no,” Dean said. “I’m saying…be patient with me. Let’s go slowly. Maybe see where—where that takes us.”

Castiel turned to look at him. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I mean, if you are.”

Castiel smiled with his eyes and leaned his weight back into him, and Dean took that for his answer. The line came in, went out, came in, went out again. Dean let Castiel go for each cast, then returned his arms to his waist and rested his head on his shoulder once the lure hit the water. Castiel was on his fourth attempt when Dean heard the crunching of dirt behind them. From the top of the rise, Sam was smiling down at them. He slipped away to the campsite without a word.

They stood there fishing until everything was bright. The only time either of them spoke was when Dean squeezed Castiel’s waist, or sometimes nudged his head, and said “slowly.”


End file.
